


Unsinkable

by louciferish



Series: I Star-Ship It [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Fluff, M/M, Tribbles (Star Trek), Vulcan Kisses, also non-literal fluff, literal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 16:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: A brief jaunt with a landing party ends in Yuuri coming back with an unexpected surprise — and then a few more unexpected surprises.In which Makkachin is a tribble. That's it. That's the summary.





	Unsinkable

**Author's Note:**

> I'm meant to be hip deep in two bangs as well as the drag AU at the moment, but I had some bad news last week and felt like writing light-hearted fluff and not dealing with anything serious for a while.
> 
> So, more Star Trek AU.
> 
> I may have fudged some things about tribbles, but I think of this as a parallel world, sort of like how NuTrek doesn't quite line up with TOS. Don't @ me with tribble lore (or do, tribbles are great)

“Captain, three to beam aboard.” Yuuri’s voice is firm and solemn on the comm, but that means nothing. He always sounds like that on the comms—so professional, so serious. Victor’s happy to hear him at all.

Usually, when there’s need for a landing party with Yuuri in it, then there’s also need for _Victor_ , but not today. Although the planet they’re visiting is lush with life signs, there are no known intelligent species present, and therefore no need for a linguistics expert to join the scientists.

Although he’s stuck on board, Victor is learning many new things today, such as the fact that he _worries_ when Yuuri is too far out of his sight. 

Once the call comes in, Victor leaves the bridge and rushes to meet the party at the transporter. He even manages to keep a nice, even pace—right up until he passes the last residential corridor. Then, he jogs. 

He rounds the corner just in time to find the two red-shirted crewmen who’d been on the landing party leaving the transporter room. They pause long enough to nod at Victor, a matched set of unfamiliar faces wearing smug smiles. Victor’s no empath, but the look on their faces gives him a sudden queasy feeling. Where is Yuuri?

As Victor approaches the door, it whooshes open, revealing one of Victor’s favorite views in the galaxy: Yuuri’s back. Beside him, a scowling transport officer is holding out a medical tricorder, its scanning sensor aimed at Yuuri’s chest.

“Yuuri!” Victor cries out. The landing party’s initial report hadn’t mentioned any injuries, but it _would_ be like Yuuri not to mention his own well-being. Victor rushes forward to see the damage for himself.

Yuuri turns to meet him—solemn, whole, unharmed, and holding an unexpected brown bundle of fluff tight in his arms. As quickly as he’d started, Victor skids to a halt. “Is that-”

“Iota Geminorium IV is home to a variety of native lifeforms,” Yuuri says, holding out the creature in his arms. “Including the tribble.”

The transport officer huffs and jams his tricorder back into his pocket. “No _known_ parasites or diseases showing up,” he says. “But you still should have warned me before beaming something like that on board the ship.” Grumbling to himself, the man turns back to his instrument panel.

Early in his years at Starfleet Academy, Victor had been forced to take an alien biology course with a teacher who collected tribble specimens. While Victor’s seen more examples of taxidermy than anyone should be comfortable with, he’s never had the chance to interact with a live tribble before.

It’s… fluffy.

Yuuri is still holding his arms out. A slight flush creeps over his cheeks, and he lowers his voice. “I know you like dogs,” he says. And then, “The captain approved of my decision.” 

A slow smile spreads over Victor’s face as he realizes what’s going on. “Yuuri, you went down with a landing party and got me a _present_?”

Alarm flashes in Yuuri’s eyes, doubt- “Is it okay?”

Victor scoops the tribble from Yuuri’s arms and hugs it to his chest. Although it doesn’t have the expressive features of a dog, the creature is warm and soft beneath his hand. As Victor buries his fingers deep in its fur, the tribble emits a pleasing low frequency which Victor feels more than he hears. He doesn’t know a lot about tribbles, but it feels _content_.

“It’s perfect,” Victor vows. Now that he’s started smiling, he can’t stop, and Yuuri ducks his head, pleased. It’s a big milestone in their budding relationship. So much of what Yuuri gives him already is a gift—the almost imperceptible smiles, the flushes, even the warmth of his hand when their fingers brush—but this is the first tangible present they’ve exchanged. 

It feels monumental. It needs celebration.

“Will you join me in my quarters tonight?” Victor asks. Yuuri’s head shoots up, eyes wide, and Victor takes a step forward, until the thrumming tumble of the tribble can be felt by both of them. The little creature trills, a high-pitched but pleasant cry. “I’d like to thank you properly, with dinner.”

“Sure,” Yuuri breathes, his expression verging on dazed. After a beat, he seems to remember himself—more’s the pity—and straightens, clasping his arms behind his back. “Yes,” he answers with more Vulcan formality. “I would like that. Very much.”

“Great!” And, because Yuuri deserves it, Victor darts in before he goes, reaching out to brush two fingers gently across the back of Yuuri’s hand. He leaves then, not pushing his luck, and it seems the tribble in his arms intensifies its pleased reaction.

-

All of the literature in the official Starfleet manuals suggests that on-board replicators are perfectly capable of producing any foodstuffs the crew might desire, and in a form which is “virtually indistinguishable” from freshly made food on Earth. 

That has not been Victor’s experience. Victor’s experience states that the replicator is capable of producing anything—provided Victor understands what he’s actually asking for to a very specific degree. Since Victor essentially grew up at the Academy and knows less about food than he knows about matter-energy conversion technologies (not much), this has been an ongoing struggle. Outside the canteen, he usually gives up and goes for whatever the machine’s default “suitably nutritious” option may be.

This will never do for a romantic evening with Yuuri.

Instead, Victor enlists the aid of a few other crewmen for help in putting together a dinner that will be not just edible, but enjoyable. By the time the door to his quarters dings, signaling his date is waiting outside, Victor is just arranging several plates of piroshki, sausage, and seasoned rice into an appealing shape around the bowl of salad at the center.

Salad, at least, Victor can prepare on his own. 

The little tribble bounces along at Victor’s heels as he goes to the door, which pulls back to reveal Yuuri looking… exactly the same as ever. He hasn’t even bothered to change out of his uniform. Lucky for him, Victor loves a man in science blues.

“Yuuri,” he sings in greeting, then steps back to allow his guest inside. “It’s good to see you.”

“You just saw me a few hours ago,” Yuuri replies. Despite the evenness of his response, his eyes are darting around the room, taking in all the details of decoration in Victor’s quarters. When he catches Victor watching him, he flushes and quickly changes the subject, looking down at the brown lump skittering over his feet. “Your new companion is settling in nicely.”

“Yes,” Victor says proudly. “It’s already learned a few words! Watch this: Makkachin, here.”

In response, the creature perks up and then slides across the floor, coming to rest at Victor’s feet. He leans down and scoops it up.

“Makkachin,” Yuuri muses. “Good. If you named it, you must be attached. I spoke with the captain again.” He frowns down at the furball in Victor’s arms. “The transportation officer had some concerns, but I reassured the command that you would be careful not to overfeed the tribble or allow it to breed. You can keep ‘Makkachin’ as long as you like.”

“Forever,” Victor promises, looking into Yuuri’s eyes as he hugs the tribble instead. Yuuri goes pink to the tips of his ears. Message received. 

Maybe it’s the heat from the couple of candles he set up going to his head, but Victor can’t help noticing how lovely Yuuri looks, bathed in the flickering glow of the wicks as they eat quietly. Sitting across a table from one another for the length of a whole meal is like torture. Victor has a fork in one hand, but the other lays on the table across from Yuuri’s, their fingers mere centimeters from touching. Their conversation is slow and stilted. Victor keeps getting distracted by the nearness of Yuuri’s skin or the gathering of embers reflected in his pupils. 

As soon as it’s feasible to do so, Victor clears his throat. “Would you like a tour of my room?”

It’s a patently ridiculous question. Victor’s room is smaller than most Earth apartments, like almost everyone else on board. It consists of a small sitting area, a bed, and this little dining spot Victor set up temporarily. The entire thing can be seen from the doorway. Any Vulcan worth his salt would immediately point out the foolishness of Victor’s suggestion.

Yuuri licks his lips. “Sure.”

Victor could make up an excuse—joke that Yuuri needs guiding to avoid getting lost or something—but it’s not needed. As they both stand, he reaches across the table, and Yuuri’s hand soon finds his own. 

They wind up sitting on the bed, eyes only for each other as their fingers intertwine, both hands palm to warm palm in the sliver of space between their laps. Yuuri’s delicate flush spreads from his cheeks up to the curve of his ears, and Victor gets stuck in that very spot. Yuuri’s affect reflects the culture he was raised in, but he’s so unmistakably human like this, soft and round and pink. 

Especially his lips. They remind Victor of the little peach blossoms that flourished on the pathways outside Starfleet Academy in spring—delicate, but intense. Yuuri’s eyes have drifted, his enamoured gaze lifting from the gentle caress of their joined hands to Victor’s own mouth, and Victor is unlikely to have a better opportunity than this.

Like a magnet drawn to true north, Victor leans slowly toward his target, careful to telegraph what he’s about to do.

They’re interrupted by a strange noise—like a delicate cough. Victor pauses, searching the room. He half expects to find Yuri’s stashed some device in a corner, rigging up a bizarre sort of prank with the worst possible timing. But nothing in the room seems out of place, no weird shadows lurking in corners. Everything is right where they left it, and-

Victor drops Yuuri’s hands and stands up, blinking to adjust his vision in the candle light. “Yuuri,” he says. “Did you happen to notice when Makkachin got on the table?”

“Makkachin?” Yuuri echoes, also standing. “No, I-” He freezes, and Victor knows it’s not just a trick of the light. 

The tribble is on the table, and the salad and sausages are untouched, but Victor’s positive that there had been one piroshki left when he and Yuuri had moved to the bed.

There are no piroshkis anymore. The tribble trills with pleasure.

“Oh no,” Victor groans. 

“This is… not good,” Yuuri murmurs, observant as always. 

Victor darts forward and scoops up Makka from the table, holding her out at arms’ length. “Does she look bigger to you? Fluffier?” Even to his own ears, the pitch of his voice is rising. 

Yuuri eyes the tribble speculatively. “Tribbles are known to reproduce quickly, but I think not _that_ fast.” He looks from Makka down to the detritus still scattered over the table. “I’ll clean up before it gets into any more.”

“Thanks,” Victor murmurs. He squeezes Makka to his chest and feels it rumble in response. It’s only been a few hours since Yuuri gave it to him, and he’s already managed to screw up. Tribble reproduction is a well-documented threat to starships, and it was risky for the captain to allow Makka on board, even with careful monitoring. It would be well within the command’s rights to have Makkachin removed from the ship after this. Victor hugs the little fluff even tighter. He can’t lose this.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says suddenly, having scrapped what was left of their romantic dinner. “This is my fault. I brought it on board.”

“I should have watched more closely,” Victor protests. “Makka is my responsibility, but I got…” distracted, he doesn’t say, letting the sentence trail off. Yuuri, being the distraction, might again blame himself. He knows what Victor isn’t saying, but this way it doesn’t solidify, lingering in the air around them instead.

Yuuri’s expression flattens into a solemn line. “I’ll stay with you,” he says. “Until we know for sure. After, we can face the captain together.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Victor can’t help smiling at that. With Yuuri, he’s learning to see care in the little things. The fact that Yuuri is still here, ready to stay by Victor’s side—it speaks volumes.

“Thank you,” Victor says, and because he can’t touch Yuuri right now, he hugs Makkachin even tighter as a substitute.

The next twelve hours are a ride. Yuuri stays in Victor’s quarters, and they lie on the bed with Makkachin’s round little form curled between their bodies. They both have shifts to work eventually and should be using this time to rest, but neither can sleep beneath a blanket of uncertainty, conscious of their impending doom. 

Victor’s research on the care of tribbles tells him that, depending on how much food Makka managed to snag, they could be in store for as many as a dozen new tribbles. _A dozen._ Numbers like that would be impossible not to notice on board, when the captain gave permission for only one. The more offspring, the greater the risk that Victor will be asked to give Makkachin up.

As the hours pass by, Victor combs his fingers through Makkachin’s fluff in a soothing gesture— for himself, more so than the tribble’s sake—and listens to its gentle trills of happiness. His other hand, he leaves curled on the pillows above his head, fingertips brushing Yuuri’s.

When the quality of Makka’s sounds suddenly shifts, Victor sits up suddenly, and Yuuri is right there beside him. The tribble quivers all over, then seems to shrink in on itself, and then—one, two!

Victor kneels on the bed with his hands clenched on his knees, waiting for more, but there’s only a chorus of trills and squeaks as the two new, small fluffs—one the same shade of brown and the other cream-colored—greet their singular parent.

“Two,” Victor breathes, relieved. “Two isn’t bad.”

“No,” Yuuri agrees, but he’s frowning deeply. “I’ll still need to inform the captain, but this is a good outcome.”

“Hey.” Yuuri looks up from the tribble tribe at the center of the bed, and Victor meets his eyes as he twines their fingers together once more. Seeing worry still nesting in the lines of Yuuri’s face, he sucks in a breath through his teeth and darts in, pressing warm lips to the soft skin of Yuuri’s cheek.

When Victor sits back on his heels, Yuuri is wide-eyed and wondering. He also doesn’t seem to be breathing. “Thank you,” Victor says. “For staying. And… no matter what happens, this is the best gift anyone has given me.” He doesn’t just mean the tribble.

Yuuri blinks, and his shoulders relax as he finally inhales once more. He licks his lips, and his fingers tighten on Victor’s. “Thank you,” Yuuri says, “for sharing it with me.” 

-

In the end, their captain is annoyed and stern, but not punitive. A tribble’s greatest asset to survival, aside from their reproductive rate, is the simple fact that other species find them so goddamn cute. Presented with not only Makkachin’s round form, but the two newborns, even the captain’s heart melts, and Victor and Yuuri are caught in the center of a bidding war as other crew members vie for the chance at one of the new arrivals.

Victor quickly takes pity on Yuri, who has been on the warpath wanting a pet since the second he found out Victor had acquired one. Although the pilot doesn’t display much gratitude, Victor can tell from the defensive way he wraps the little white tribble in a towel that he’ll be a responsible pet parent. 

Within seconds, Yuri is arguing names with Altin. “Tiger,” Victor hears him suggest. “No, wait- Tiger _Scorpion_. No, wait-”

That only leaves the little brown one, and no obvious candidates—at least not until Victor notices the delicate way Yuuri’s hands remain cupped around the tiny creature, a murmuring deep in his throat as he tries to mimic the tribble’s noises.

“What are you going to call it?” Victor asks, by way of announcement, and Yuuri draws back in surprise.

But he barely hesitates, a name already on his tongue. “Vicchan,” he says. “This one is Vicchan.”

The similarity to Victor’s own name is too striking not to notice, but he doesn’t mention it. Yuuri’s had to struggle with enough difficult emotions for one day. Instead, Victor slips his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, holding Makka up until the two tribbles can nestle together, warm against their owners’ chests. Victor feels the rumble of contentment thrumming through his bones again, and for a moment he’s not sure who’s making it—the tribbles, or himself.


End file.
